Jaymie could hardly believe his family hadn’t recognized Jymmy for what he was. He only hoped the ploy would last until Aaron was returned to them, and they could surreptitiously swap Jymmy out. So far, he’d heard nothing from the collectors.

“How’s your new music coming, sweetheart?” Leonora asked Jymmy.

“I made a poem about a nice drunk lady who hit on me at work, and I can play barre chords on the guitar!” said Jymmy without hesitation. Jaymie cringed and hid it just as quickly.

“How very Charles Bukowski of you.” Leonora winked. Leonora’s wink, like Jaymie’s wink, was a singular gem—the non-creepy, non-awkward wink—that can only be produced through years of practice or a by rare natural magic that resides deep in the soul. Leonora had never revealed the source of hers; Jaymie had practiced relentlessly.

“Who Bukowski?” said Jymmy.

“How’s the circus, Mom!” Jaymie interjected. His phone gave two quick vibrations in his pocket and he nearly dropped his wine glass. It was normally set to silence so it wouldn’t distract him, but he’d been anxious to hear from Spencer. He glanced at it under the table. The collector’s message said that he’d gotten tied up at work, but he’d decided that he personally would pick Jaymie up and take him to get Aaron and fill out the paperwork. Jaymie breathed a sigh of relief. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so on edge.

“Oh, you know! Endless fun—” Leonora glanced at Grandma McLeod. “—And it’s a handsome salary which will put one or more of the kids through university, should they ever desire it.”

“It sounds like the perfect—” Auntie Dory attempted.

“I’m sure Becca will appreciate that, in lieu of having your presence in her life,” said their grandmother.

Grandma McLeod was both tiny and imposing. She had a voice both delicate and severe. Usually she was more subtle in conveying her high standards, but she’d prepared her famous tomato aspic that afternoon at the hotel, and had been more than a little alarmed to find that her grandchildren had supplied not one, but two, additional Jello-based side dishes.

“I’m only a phone call away,” said Leonora, smiling fondly at Rex and mashing her aspic into a bloody pulp with her fork.

Jaymie noted that his grandma was snippier than usual, and felt simultaneously glad to be leaving and guilty for abandoning Rex to suffer through it.

“I’m going to have to go really soon. It’s… music-related.” He tried to sound apologetic, but wasn’t sure how convincing he was; somehow, he’d gone off his game again.

“Setting up your drums for the show tonight?” asked Leonora. “I’ll be there!”

Jaymie had almost forgotten the show. “Yes! That,” he said. He realized that Leonora was clarifying so his grandparents would know he was doing something useful. He felt gratitude, knowing that meals with the grandparents were hard on her and she was working to keep the mood positive and her sarcasm to a minimum.

“They can’t even sit still through one family meal…” complained Grandma.

“If it’s for a show, it’s worthwhile,” said his mother definitively.

Jaymie drained his wine glass and gripped his phone, waiting for his ride. He thought he’d felt it buzz again, but he’d imagined it. His knees were vibrating under the table. He poured another glass, starting to feel a different kind of buzz altogether.

Grandma directed a probing question at Sasha and Michaud, to their great pleasure, and Leonora took the opportunity to lean and touch his arm. “Aaron, honey, you’re not big into drinking again, are you?” she asked quietly.

“What? Oh—no, Mom,” Jaymie croaked, taken off guard. He tried to remember—what were Aaron’s rules now? “Only at shows,” he said. “Always stop at three or four.”

“Have you gone to a psychiatrist yet?” asked his Grandmother, turning back to them. “You know I said I’d pay for it.”

“A psychiatrist…” said Jaymie. Jymmy was exuberantly spooning a mountain of seafoam salad onto his plate, and Jaymie felt a jolt of panic, thinking he’d give himself away before they could leave.

“He likes the CBT he was seeing,” Leonora answered for him. “But we could also look into anxiety medication. I know I’ve suggested it before,” she said gently.

“Meds? No, I’m fine just how I am, thanks,” Jaymie mumbled. Then he realized that being off his game was working for him. He probably couldn’t do a better impression of Aaron-at-family-dinner if he’d planned a script. The knowledge that he was better off having no idea what to say awakened in him a kind of social helplessness that he hadn’t experienced since high school.

“Maybe it’d help you feel a little calmer, honey. And make performing less of a struggle. Make you a bit happier,” said Leonora.

“He’s not—I mean, I’m not unhappy.” Jaymie was fairly certain this was true.

“We’re just trying to help, sweetheart,” said his grandmother, smiling blandly. “Since this band of your brother’s obviously hasn’t.” She reached to pat Jymmy’s hand in a truly grandmotherly way. “Not that it’s your fault, dear.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” said Jymmy happily. Jaymie waited for someone to chastise the fake-Jaymie for his lack of empathy, and when no one did he felt his face flush with something like shame, which also hadn’t happened since high school.

“You might find you have more energy for music,” Leonora said. “And more enthusiasm! Like Jaymie…” She stopped, and he knew she was wondering if she’d gone to far.

“I don’t need to be like Jaymie!” Jaymie snapped.

“I hate to say it again, sweetie,” said Grandma, “But maybe you two need some time apart. You could take a break from the band. You don’t have to be a professional musician, you know.”

“What!” Jaymie dropped his fork.

“Mom, stop!” said Leonora. “He likes playing music… And you know it gets worse when Jaymie’s away on tour.”

“Don’t leave me, Adam!” Jymmy told him jubilantly, eyeing his next forkful of marshmallows like it was the beating heart of a vanquished enemy.

Is this what it was like to be Aaron?

“Becca! How are your studies?” boomed his grandfather. “Any boyfriends yet?”

***

The greeting from Eric’s answering machine landed dully among the shocked clones. There was a cruel beep just flat of A5, which was, incidentally, the same pitch as the tinnitus in Aaron’s left ear. He looked at Derek, unsure how to reassure him. Perhaps there is no adequate reassurance for someone whose creator has replaced them with an updated version.

“Oh, honey…” said Cassie 2.3. “Forget Eric! Who needs him?” She made a movement to comfort the inventor, but then grabbed Aaron’s arm and pointed across the room. Two collectors stood by the hallway conferring over a clipboard.

Aaron and Cassie 2.3 were quiet as Derek worked himself through what appeared to be his own brand of panic attack. The answering machine rolled, recording only his laboured breathing and perhaps the A-flat from Aaron’s left ear, which seemed to have doubled in amplitude for no reason at all.

***

Leonora had been set ill at ease by her mother’s criticisms. She was used to it, but she didn’t like to think of it affecting the confidence of her kids. Fortunately, Sasha had managed to redirect the family’s attention with a fun fact about how the guitar player from Michaud’s old punk band now played in the BBBFB.

“Small world!” said Leonora, grasping desperately onto the lighter topic. “I’ve always loved the music scene here. It’s like a jumble of Venn diagrams!” She winked her thanks at Sasha. “The kids speak very highly of their guitarist.”

“She’s goddamn brilliant,” Michaud contributed. “Big fucking burnout though, too bad. Pardon my French!”

“Don’t worry, dear, my parents have heard every swear under the sun,” said Leonora, suppressing an urge to thank Michaud for his attention-stealing existence in her dining room.

“Yes, well, it’s a common story,” said Grandma. “It’s no secret that so many musicians go that way…”

“They can’t all turn out as bright and accomplished as our Nora!” said Grandpa McLeod, who was not technically a McLeod, or their grandpa, but had married their grandmother long enough ago that he might as well have been. He’d been a stepdad for decades, and had always been the type intent on winning acceptance, rather than the type intent on asserting dominance, or the type who was perfectly well-adjusted.

“Drinking, drugs… It’s not their fault, necessarily—it’s the lifestyle,” said Grandma. “It’s the people they’re around. Would you agree?” she directed the question at Michaud, who was happy to take a stab at it.

“Yeah, I probably was a shitty influence on Jo, back then. We were kids! We had fun, we got riled up. What can you do?” He grinned through a mouthful of seafoam salad.

“I was thinking of making a punk band, and it’s called Bukowski One-Eight-Two. No, Bukowski Kill. No, the Buzz-kowski-cocks. Fugkowski—” Jymmy was silenced by looks from Rex and Jaymie.

“I just hate to think of that happening to our Becca, when she has such a bright future ahead of her,” said Grandma. “And these two don’t set the best example—you know, dear, just because your brothers want to spend time with underachiever-types like that guitar player—”

Rex was not usually the first to break at family gatherings, but tonight was an exceptional night.

“That’s not my name! Those aren’t my pronouns! That’s not my brother! This isn’t how you make a fucking seafoam salad!” They slammed their cutlery down and left the room.

***

“He replaced me…”

“We need to think of another option,” said Cassie 2.3, eyeing the Collectors.

“He replaced me with a girl clone…‘Erica’…”

“I hate to say I told you so…” said Five-O, who had been drawn back by the opportunity to say “I told you so.”

“Let me call my brother,” Aaron pleaded. “He might be able to help us!”

50117 sneered. “If he didn’t care enough to answer his notices, I doubt he’ll be pleased to hear from you. And besides, how does that help us?” He motioned toward Cassie 2.3 and Derek.

“I didn’t invent a new machine so you could get home to your soft bed,” Derek agreed bitterly.

“Seriously? Guys, come on. I’m trying to help!” But he knew it was true; if he found any way to get home to his family, he’d take it, even if it meant spinelessly leaving the other clones to their fates.

“Who else do you know, Derek?” said Cassie 2.3, shaking the devastated man’s shoulder.

“I have no one else…”

“Well, I don’t either! I don’t have Cassie’s number. And she knows I’m here, anyway.”

Five-O began, “I could call my contacts—”

“Not you!” said Derek and Cassie 2.3 in unison.

“It’s true, I’d leave you here to die,” he admitted.

“Ok, the police!” Aaron suggested desperately. “They might be able to get us all out! Dismembering people is for sure a crime—”

“We’re not ‘people,’ and dismantling is not a crime—not yet,” Cassie 2.3 reminded him grimly.

“The police know all about us,” scoffed Five-O. “This is a branch of government! They’re more concerned about keeping people from making more clones than they are about our welfare.”

“But we’re going to die!” protested Aaron. “The police could at least tell my brother where we are—he would never want us dismem—dismantled, he’d want us all freed—”

“Unless your brother has a high-up contact in the police force who’s indebted to him and could be bribed to use his power to get us out of here—” Five-O began.

“Oh my god, I do have—I know who to call. I can get us out of here. You have to trust me—I have a police contact. He’d never let this happen.”

Derek stared at his device for a moment and then, unable to think of a better idea, handed it to Aaron, who took a deep breath and began the slow process of entering a fourteen-digit number he’d known by heart for as long as he could remember.

***

Jaymie excused himself and followed Rex, but Leonora caught him in the hall.

“Are they alright?” she asked. “Do you think they’d talk to me?” She looked unsure, and Jaymie realized he wasn’t the only one out of his comfort zone. He wished he could reassure her that it wasn’t her fault and explain the situation, but knew the truth would upset her.

“They’re just on edge. The dinner, the show—it’s a lot,” he said. “Uh, any other time, they’d probably like to talk, but right now… Um…”

“I understand. You’ve always been best with Rex.” She squeezed his shoulder.

“I have?”

“I’ll try to keep everything under control in there.” She winked. “Good luck, Aaron.”

***

Rex was angry at themself for losing their cool, but too angry at everyone else to go back and apologize. They were mad at their grandparents for being what Rex considered Florida People, and at their mom for being objectively the coolest person ever and obviously not caring about Rex at all, and at Sasha for trying to make a mess while oblivious to the much more terrible mess happening right in front of them, and at Jaymie for Literally Everything. The Aunties were ok.

The weather had gotten bored of being minus forty and was warming up in the least mature ways it could think of. Rex opened their window to cool off and was immediately punched in the face by a bawdy gust of sleet, which they estimated was only half as glacial as the atmosphere in the dining room they’d just left. They began penning a letter to their dad, of the variety that would go in a drawer after and never get sent.

Jaymie knocked and entered. “I have to leave and get Aar, like, any second,” he said urgently. “You can’t let Grandma get to you like that.”

Rex shuddered at the thought of rejoining dinner and having to stare at the weird clone-Jaymie across the table. “I can’t handle it in there. I’m stressed, Jay! And Sasha’s trying to piss her off on purpose!”

“Good thing for us—it’s the only reason nobody’s noticed there’s something seriously wrong about ‘Jaymie.’”

“I can’t stand it.” Rex had hit their emotional limit for the weekend.

“It’s not ideal,” Jaymie admitted, shrugging with discontent. Rex suddenly felt an uncontrollable surge of rage.

“Not ideal? This is your fault! Stop acting like everything is fine and you know exactly what to do—you have no idea!”

“Rex, I’m sorry, but you’ve got to keep an eye on him while I’m gone—if they figure out what Jymmy is—”

But Rex couldn’t stop now. “You’re not sorry! You’re never sorry. I almost got killed by a cult last month and you don’t care!”

“What! I’d never let you get killed, it’d destroy me—”

“Yes you would, if it meant you got a good story out of it. We only got away by luck! You don’t give a shit about us! You only think about yourself.” Rex could see his face twisting up in anguish, and it gave them a strange kind of satisfaction that also made them feel ugly and bad.

“Rex, you know I care about you—”

“No you don’t! Aar’s gone and it’s all because of you—I hate you!” At that moment, Rex was fairly certain they meant it. A wrenching sob escaped from somewhere in their chest, like a prisoner you’ve had locked up for so long that you’re pretty sure they’ve come to prefer captivity, but who surprises you by pointing behind you and going “What’s that!” and making a desperate bid for freedom when you turn to look.

They angrily wiped away their tears, and then kicked their desk, and then let Jaymie hug them to his chest and pet the top of their head.

“I’m sorry, Rex.”

“I don’t care.”

“Ok.”

From downstairs, Leonora could be heard telling the story of a violinist she’d met in Vegas who turned out to be a spy for the NRA investigating possible Canadian enemies hidden undercover as circus performers, or so he’d told her once she’d gotten a few drinks in him.

“Why did we make a seafoam salad?” Rex murmured wetly into Jaymie’s sweater.

“That’s just what ingredients we had in the house,” he replied.

“We didn’t even have any pears.”

“Hence marshmallows.”

Rex let out a few involuntary cry-gasps, and reminded themself that Western society has taught people to be ashamed about displaying emotion even though it can be quite healthy, but they still felt awkward and embarrassed, which confused them, and they wished they could go tell Leonora about it, but they knew they never would.

“Sasha’s has pear in it,” Jaymie pointed out. “No cream cheese, though.”

“What was she thinking?” Rex sniffled.

“How about Michaud, though, right?”

“I like him. I’m going to become just like him.” Rex unwrapped their arms from around Jaymie’s waist and wiped their eyes one last time on his shoulder.

“Please, please, tell him that in front of Grandma when we go back in,” said Jaymie.

Rex laughed shakily. “Ok, we should... Jymmy might be making a scene by now.”

“Oh my god. Jymmy. Ok, let’s go, Rex! You’ve got this.” He gave their shoulders a final squeeze and they went to join the family.

***

A man sat at a sparsely decorated desk, eating a microwaveable chicken dinner and making a list of names not unlike Jo’s fridge list, though none of them were names we’d recognize or know how to pronounce. A glass of clear alcohol three eighths full (though he saw it as five eighths empty) sparkled near the fingertips of his other hand. It was 1:45 a.m., a time at which the man had lately made it a routine to eat dinner by himself at the station.

An outdated cd player quietly masticated on an album it had held in its jaws for six months. A tenor with an improbably wide vocal range yelped about the sort of complex youthful-emotional problems that the Chief Inspector of the Capital Police Command didn’t quite understand, and not just because the words were sung very quickly and in English.

The desk held three pictures of his children, posed with their arms draped around each other, from sixteen, ten, and two years ago, respectively, although the last one was actually a band photo he’d printed from the internet, and his youngest cub’s attire looked unsettlingly similar to that of the repeat shoplifters he used to have to chase down early in his career. Appearances weren’t everything, though; he was pretty sure his kid was a good kid.

In front of the pictures sat a stapler, his gun, and a fully tricked-out telephone, which rang presently.

“Brzezinski,” he answered, rotating the volume on the cd player. The voice of the singer was replaced by another, equally familiar, keening tenor, delayed a few seconds by a long-distance connection, crying out, “Tato, you have to help me! I’ve been kidnapped by the government and I’m going to get dismembered!”

With the swift, calm motion of someone who has been coping with alarming situations on a weekly or daily basis for decades, the detective set his phone to record and trace the call, and said, with only a brief stammer as he switched to English, “Ok—ok, son, tell me of the situation.”

And then there was a clunk and some indecipherable shouting and someone cried out in pain and the signal was lost.